Life is living in time but not living without air.
The very air that transforms into wind and strokes objects.
Sometimes moving them,like her whispers move me.
Whispers bundled in peaceful typhoons.
Brushing over my face,squeezing into my ears.
Temporary deafness,my mind is left for her voice to engulf,
My reasons are spun up into her innocent raging beauty.
I shut my eyes,my body is thrown into a mine.
I grope around in the dark seeking light,
I grab an object,gentle and red.
Yes,I feel the colors in the dark,for in my head,blowing light reveals what the eyes hardly imagine.
My touch is back with a softer feeling...
Where my feet tend to walk in strides of fearlessness,
Trodding over valuable stones that no man can assume,
Yet I choose not to pick any,
The minerals ask me why?
"Her majesty,my instructor within my literary self,ordered me not to,"
Thereby I follow,she leads then guides me into a beautifully dreadful subject,
Where objects are invisible and only she can turn me into everything and nothing in a few words.
Will she say those words that will contort time and matter?
The words that will manipulate emotional dimensions and unravel greatness located inside my eyes?
Healing my partial deafness restoring my sanity temporarily,
Blowing me back to reality and objectionable subservity?
They will say I'm a poetic lunatic.
My static self forever nailed to the massive woman she be.
M.O.O aka Carswell evoL
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